


Into the Woods

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), Psychic Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-31 01:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12665094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: Standing in front of him, Sam is a dark silhouette against the flickering blue light. His back is to Dean and his arms are outstretched to the sides, robes billowing around him. His head is bowed. The power emanating from him is immense, immeasurable.Sam,Dean tries to say;Sam—but no sound makes it past his lips and Dean isn’t certain the creature in front of him is his brother.In which the setting is vaguely medieval but the family business is still very much saving people and hunting things.





	Into the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for the 2017 [Supernatural ReverseBang](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/), based on some gorgeous art drawn by [sketchydean](http://sketchydean.tumblr.com/), which you can find here. Check out our masterpost here.
> 
> Part 2 of this fic should be posted very soon!

> _ Merry it is while summer lasts, _
> 
> _ With birds in song; _
> 
> _ But now there threaten windy blasts _
> 
> _ And tempests strong. _
> 
> _ Ah, but the night is long, _
> 
> _ And I, being done such wrong, _
> 
> _ Sorrow and mourn and fast. _
> 
>  

Dean breathes in. It’s the only movement he can manage.

The woods stretch away around him in every direction. Strange blue light flickers eerily throughout the clearing, casting shadows off the trees and making them appear even more menacing. Beneath him, the loamy earth is blanketed with fallen leaves, cold and dampening his clothes but soft against his shoulder, his hip. He feels a deep desire to close his eyes and let sleep take him, and that only worsens the pit of cold dread in his stomach.

Standing in front of him, Sam is a dark silhouette against the flickering blue light. His back is to Dean and his arms are outstretched to the sides, robes billowing around him. His head is bowed. The power emanating from him is immense, immeasurable.

_ Sam _ , Dean tries to say;  _ Sam _ _ — _ but no sound makes it past his lips and Dean isn’t certain the creature in front of him is his brother.

His sword is just out of reach, gleaming on the ground a few inches from his outstretched fingers. From the corner of his eye a patch of autumn sky is visible, clear and cold and glittering with the light of a thousand thousand brilliant stars.

Despite the wind, the woods are utterly silent.

 

i.

Dean wakes in darkness, disoriented for just a moment before he hears Sam’s laboured, shivering breaths coming quick and shallow next to him. Alert, he fumbles with the box of matches next to his pillow until soft candlelight illuminates the space around him.

On the pallet beside his, Sam’s eyes are open but unseeing, staring blankly up at the rafters. Sweat glistens on his face and in the hollow of his throat. His nose is bleeding sluggishly, glistening black in the dim candlelight.

“Hey.” Dean sits up, rolls out of bed and grips Sam’s shoulder, shaking him firmly. “Sam.  _ Evigila. _ ”

Sam sucks in a gasping breath that rattles in his throat and begins shivering with even more violence. Keeping his hand on his brother’s shoulder, Dean reaches across his prone body for his rucksack and rummages around until he feels cool glass under his fingertips. He pulls out the vial of ruby-coloured liquid and uncorks it, then supports Sam’s neck with his hand and brings the mouth of the bottle to his lips, taking care to pour only a little so as not to choke him. Once Sam swallows it, he gives him another small sip, and then another.

By the third sip of elixir, Sam’s shivering has abated save a tremor in his hands. Dean seals the bottle and returns it to Sam’s bag. He uses the cuff of his own shirtsleeve to wipe the blood from under his nose.

“Sam.”

Sam blinks rapidly several times, as though trying to clear his vision, then tries to push himself up using his elbows.

Dean stops him with a firm hand to his shoulder, easing him back down to the straw mattress. “Hey, take it easy. Are you with me?”

“Dean,” Sam says, still with a gasping dreamlike quality to his voice. “We have to.”

“Relax,” Dean says. “Tell me what you saw. Another memory?”

Sam closes his eyes and shakes his head. He breathes in deep, trying to recapture the dream. When he speaks, it’s in broken fragments. “A village. At the edge of the mountains near the pass. There was a woman. Wearing a white dress.”

“That’s not much to go on,” Dean says. “Was there anything else?”

Sam shakes his head. “She said... ‘the woods will swallow us all.’ There were sprigs of lavender in her hair.” His eyes are still closed. “It felt… cold. Something isn’t right. She was afraid. I think she’s in danger.” He opens his eyes and struggles fruitlessly to sit up, cold fingers clasping Dean’s wrist. “We have to help her.”

Dean sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “You need rest,” he says. “Sleep. We’ll leave when you wake.”

Dean knows what the vision cost Sam by the way he nods and collapses gratefully back into the mattress. He brushes his fingers through his brother’s tangled hair and prays silently that he’ll sleep until morning.

+

In the small town where Dean once lived as a child, there was a summer festival every year in the field at the center of town. Caravans full of dancers and magicians and musicians came in from other villages and larger towns. Bakers sold fresh pies and brewers opened casks of ale and for three days in midsummer there was feasting and merriment in preparation for the harvest.

During the summer when Sam was only a few months old, their mother took them to the festival. She carried baby Sam in her arms, so Dean was left to walk by himself next to her, clinging to her skirts as they waded through the crowds to find a place to sit in the grass.

In the thick of the crowd, someone grabbed Dean’s arm. He cried out in alarm, but his mother kept walking without taking notice.

The woman who grabbed him was old and wizened, her face creased with deep lines. She was dressed strangely, in long brightly coloured robes. Her hand was veiny and gnarled on Dean’s elbow. Her odd look made Dean panic even more, and he cried out for his mother again.

“Don’t get up,” she half-whispered, leaning in close to Dean’s face, her grip on his arm tightening painfully. “Whatever you hear, don’t get up. Don’t let him see you.”

“Dean!” That was his mother, coming back through the crowd toward him. “Take your hands off my son.”

The woman straightened and released Dean. She extended a bony finger toward Mary, aimed at the squalling baby in her arms. “Watch him,” she said coldly.

She disappeared into the crowd, but Dean could feel her hand on his arm for the rest of the day, and when he tried to sleep he heard her voice, saw the way she looked at baby Sam.

_ Watch him. Don’t let him see you. _

+

It’s a two-day journey to the mountains. They ride across the plains in the early autumn mist in near-silence, dismounting at evening to build a fire and set up camp in a grove of trees. Sam hasn’t spoken much since he woke, still pale and quiet with red-rimmed eyes, keeping his cloak wrapped tight about him although the weather is mild.

Dean leaves him to tend the fire while he feeds and waters the horses and catches a rabbit to roast for dinner. Sam gets the larger portion but eats little, picking at the meat with his fingers and staring unblinking at the firelight. In the dimming light, his eyes are cast in black and the flames glow in their center like burning coals.

He turns this way, sometimes, after he sees things. Silent and cold. At a distance so great not even Dean can cross it.

“I was remembering our father,” Dean says, and the sound of his own voice breaking the silence surprises him. “The day he took us into the woods to hunt deer. I shot a buck through the eye with my bow and we sold it to the butcher. Father was so proud. He let us drink ale after, remember?”

Sam keeps staring at the fire, giving no indication he’s heard Dean for several minutes. When he speaks, his voice is low and flat. “I remember that day. He reprimanded me for dropping my bow when I was startled by a flock of crows. He was angry, and disappointed, and you made yourself sick drinking ale.”

Dean tenses reflexively in defensive anger at Sam’s bitter tone. “He wasn’t disappointed,” he says. “He was training us to be on guard, always. He wanted you to understand that it was important.”

“It didn’t do anything to save him,” Sam says.

“No,” Dean says. “It didn’t.”

They don’t speak again until morning.

+

Sometime in the late afternoon the rolling hills drop away suddenly into steep cliffs. Sam and Dean dismount a short distance away and walk to the cliff’s edge to navigate a path down. The rocky cliff face appears to plunge steeply for a hundred feet or so into a lush green valley. The road winds gently through the valley, bordered on one side by a large pasture. In the distance, half-hidden among the shadows of the mountains bordering the other edge of the valley, smoke rises from a cluster of small houses.

“Is this the place?” Dean asks.

“I think so,” Sam says. “It feels… familiar.”

“Those woods don’t seem welcoming,” Dean says, eyeing the dark mountains ahead. “Do you have any idea what we might be dealing with? There are only so many creatures I can kill with my sword.”

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing I saw made any sense,” he says. “But I know this is the place. I’m asking you to trust me.”

Sam’s hair is falling in front of his eyes but he’s studying the valley as though he can discern its mysteries if he glares at it hard enough. He has left his cloak off and he looks cold, their father’s crumpled map held in his hands.

Dean touches the cold amulet at his throat once. “Of course,” he says.

+

Near the end of summer in Dean’s twelfth year, Sam clung to his arm in the doorway and begged him not to go, his eyes bright with tears. He had woken up from a nightmare earlier, hair clinging to his forehead with sweat and his breaths coming fast and shallow, reaching for Dean next to him. It had taken Dean nearly an hour to calm him down to the point of coherence.

“You have to stay here,” Sam urged frantically, his fingers wrapped tight in the fabric of Dean’s cloak. “Where it’s safe. If you go, bad things will happen.”

“Sam,” Dean said, trying gently to extricate himself from Sam’s grip. “Bad things are always happening, and we must stop them. If I refused to go, I would be disobeying a direct order from our father, leaving him alone and in danger. Is that what you want?”

Sam shook his head, the curls of his hair bouncing with the movement. His grip loosened. “I saw it,” he whispered, gaze downcast. “I saw you with a spear in your heart.”

“It was a dream,” Dean said, stroking a hand over his brother’s hair and pushing him back gently in the same motion. “Nothing more.”

Shoulders slumped, Sam disappeared back inside while Dean saddled his horse and packed provisions for the journey into his rucksack. When the early sun had risen full in the summer sky and Dean was ready to set off, he reemerged from their house with his eyes dry and something clutched tight in his fist.

“Take it,” he urged, opening his hand to reveal a small horned amulet on a leather chain. “It will keep you safe.”

“Where did you get that?” Dean asked, reaching out to touch the strange trinket. “What is it?”

Sam shook his head. “It’s for protection,” he said, a desperate edge to his voice. “Please take it.”

Dean took it, if only for the way Sam breathed out in relief when he fastened the strap around his neck. It felt unnaturally heavy and cool against his throat, and didn’t seem to warm to his body temperature during his journey.

Yet, when the spirit they were hunting hurled a lance in Dean’s direction, the amulet burned white hot against his throat for just a moment before the tip pierced his shoulder.

+

The village priest rides out to meet them as they approach. A tall man with a commanding presence and a kind smile, he introduces himself as Father Francis and inquires after their business in the village.

“We’re travelling north through the mountains,” Sam says. “We were hoping to find shelter in your village for the night.”

“You will find it,” Francis says. “Though more than that, I cannot promise without at least knowing your names.”

Dean can sense Sam wants to interrogate the priest for more information from the way he draws breath quickly, and decides to intervene. “Father, my name is Dean, and this is my brother Sam. We thank you for any hospitality you have to offer.”

“Strange names,” the priest muses. “In any case, we will give you shelter. The woods are no place to travel at night. Hospitality, though, I cannot promise. I’m afraid you’ve arrived at an inopportune time.”

“Has something happened?” Sam presses.

“Three children have disappeared from our village in the last several months,” the priest says sadly. “Wandered off into the woods, or abducted. The villagers are suspicious of the forest, you see. It’s a dangerous place, which they believe is full of creatures from the Old World.”

“What kinds of creatures?” Sam says, as their small party draws near the cluster of small thatch-roofed buildings that comprises the village. Despite it being only early evening and still light outside, the village is empty, and eerily quiet.

“Best not to discuss such fanciful things, I think,” Francis says, drawing to a halt and dismounting.

Sam and Dean follow suit.

The priest’s gaze lingers on Sam’s robes, the amulet strung around Dean’s neck. “I will find you shelter for the night, but I’d ask that you not disturb the villagers, and that you leave quietly in the morning.”

“Of course,” Dean says, ignoring the glance Sam casts his way.

+

The town blacksmith answers the door when Father Francis knocks, introduces himself as Godfrey and agrees easily to taking Sam and Dean in. His house is small, just one simple room, but he welcomes them inside for food and offers them the beds in the loft above the stable for the night.

Godfrey sits Sam and Dean at the rough-hewn wooden table by the fire and feeds them rich stew with meat and potatoes. There they learn that he has lived alone with his young daughter Annis since his wife and infant son perished in a pestilence that struck the town several years ago.

“I never let her out of my sight anymore,” Godfrey says, watching his daughter as she does the washing up. “Folk used to say I was mad, but with the way things have turned in this town…”

“The disappearances?” Sam leans forward across the table. “Is there anything you can tell us about them?”

The blacksmith leans back in his chair. “Well, the first to disappear was young Maera, almost this time last year,” he says. “A pleasant girl, but strange. Prone to wandering, you see.” He rubs a hand over his beard. “Next was Tem, the baker’s boy. An apprentice to Father Francis, he was. That was months ago now. Then just a week ago we lost little Maria. All five of her brothers and sisters died of the fever last year. Terrible shame. The church would have us believe they wandered off into the forest and got lost.”

“What do you believe?” Sam asks.

Godfrey narrows his eyes at Sam appraisingly, then glances around the room, as though to ensure no one else is listening. When he speaks again, his voice is low and hurried. “Every child in this village knows better than to wander into the woods. Maria was too timid to even dream of leaving her mother’s side. We’ve been here far longer than any priest, and we know that forest. Those children aren’t lost. They were taken.”

He leans back in his chair and lapses into silence.

“What do you think took them?” Dean asks, adopting the same hushed tone.

Godfrey shakes his head. “The forest is old. Older than any man. In times gone by the people of this village lived at peace with the creatures that call it home, but we’ve forgotten them now. We ignore it, though it lies in front of us.”

“Godfrey,” Sam says. “We believe the children may have been taken by something… not natural to this world.”

The blacksmith blinks in surprise. Dean sees the moment he takes in their dress, the particular cut of Sam’s robes. “You practice magic, boy?”

Dean tenses reflexively, preparing to put himself between Sam and Godfrey if needed.

Sam squares his shoulders and says, flatly, “Of a kind.”

After a tense moment, Godfrey nods. “Father Francis is a kind man, but blind to the danger at our doorstep. He’ll hear no talk of the forest. Perhaps you’ll be the ones to put an end to this.”

Dean relaxes, hears Sam exhale sharply in the same moment. “We intend to.”

+

In the stable, Dean tends to his horse. He feeds her oats from his hand, strokes her sleek black head and speaks to her in low tones. When he climbs up into the loft, where Godfrey has provided them with several blankets, Sam looks up from the map he’s studying by candlelight and shakes his head. “The way you talk to that horse, it’s as if you believe it can understand you.”

Under normal circumstances, Dean would be annoyed by the remark. As it is, it’s the first time Sam has sounded like himself since the vision two nights ago. “She understands me perfectly, thank you,” he says, hoisting himself over the ladder. The space is low-ceilinged and smells of horses, but it’s well-built, kept warm and dry.

Sam scoffs. “If you insist.”

Dean unclasps his sword from around his back, sets it aside and settles into the straw mattress, wrapping his cloak tightly around himself. He closes his eyes, listening to the familiar sound of rustling paper and Sam’s breathing in the quiet. He feels warmer than he has in days.

“I suppose we should speak with the families of the victims tomorrow,” he says, sleep-drowsy.

Sam hums in acknowledgement. “The priest wants us gone by morning. And I doubt most of the villagers will have anything to do with us.”

“What, then?” Dean yawns widely.

“We investigate the forest,” Sam says, “for any trace of the thing taking the children. Whatever it is — witch, djinn, werewolf — if I can track it, we can kill it.”

“Sam,” Dean says. “Tracking something with no lead could take days. If you overexert yourself — ”

“I can handle it.” His tone is abrupt, final.

They lie in silence for a while. Then: “The woman in your dream,” Dean says. “Who is she? Do you think she’s here?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, after a long pause. “I think she’s already gone.”

“‘The woods will swallow us all,’” Dean muses.

Sam doesn’t say anything else, not about the woods or the vision, but Dean wakes at some unknown hour to Sam shivering next to him despite the warmth of the loft. He calls Sam’s name softly in the dark, to no response.

+

Despite the clouds looming over the mountains the day before, the morning dawns cold and clear. Sam and Dean rise early and share a breakfast of bread and hard cheese before saddling the horses and preparing to journey into the woods. Outside, a few villagers emerging from their houses cast suspicious glances toward them.

As Dean straps his sword to his back, Godfrey emerges from the house. “I have some idea where you might begin your search. There is a path the children played on, before going to the woods was forbidden. You’ll find it past the old well at the westernmost edge of the pasture.”

“Thank you,” Dean says. “For your help, and your hospitality.”

“We will find out what happened to the children,” says Sam. “And bring justice to whatever took them.”

He falls abruptly silent at the sight of Father Francis striding across the field toward them. 

“Good morning!” the priest calls. “I trust you found your stay comfortable.”

“The welcome was much appreciated,” Dean says. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” The priest smiles in a way that displays all his teeth. “I wish you safe travels.”

Godfrey bows his head and raises a hand in farewell as they ride away down the road along the pasture fence toward the mountains. The sun has only just risen but already the villagers have begun their day of work, tending the pasture and the crops. They keep their eyes downcast and their backs turned to the brothers as they pass on horseback. When they reach the end of the pasture fence they veer off the road and into the grass bordering the edge of the forest. The sun glistens off the dew in the grass and a chill autumn breeze sweeps through the valley.

Dean glances at Sam. It had taken several minutes for Dean to rouse him, and when he finally woke he was disoriented. When Dean asked what he’d dreamed, Sam wouldn’t say. He’s been quiet all morning.

“Don’t stare at me,” Sam says. There are shadows like bruises under his eyes. “We’re here.”

They’ve come to the edge of the pasture where the stone well rises from the grass. Beyond it, a path opens like a great yawning mouth in the trees, dark and winding. The horses are reluctant, but together they manage to coax them onto the well-worn dirt path and beyond the first trees bordering the woods.

The strange quiet of the village is nothing compared with the utter silence that greets them once they cross the border into the forest. The sound of birdsong is absent. The wind itself seems hushed, though it still pulls at their hair and clothes. Even so, the woods are undeniably beautiful. The edges of the leaves have begun to turn ochre with the first touch of autumn, and the sunlight filtering through the canopy bathes the woods in shimmering gold. Lush green moss and ferns carpet the forest floor and creep up the trunks of the trees on either side of the path, verdant and brimming with life.

“The most beautiful places are often the most dangerous.” Sam speaks softly, but his voice sounds loud in the silence.

“Just as our father always told us,” Dean says. “These woods look as though they haven’t been touched in a hundred years.”

They follow the path deeper into the woods. As they do, the trees begin to move closer together. The bright gold of the autumn leaves gives way to looming evergreens that sway dark and menacing against the thin patches of sky that remain visible above, and the forest floor turns brown and earthy. The temperature drops noticeably.

“Wait,” Sam says, after nearly two hours of quiet. He draws to a halt. “Look.”

They dismount. Sam bends down to pick something up off the ground and holds it out for inspection. It’s a scrap of torn fabric, dyed blue.

“Can you feel anything?” Dean asks.

Sam closes his fingers tight around the fabric and shuts his eyes. A crease appears between his eyebrows. “There’s… nothing.” His brows draw closer together. “I can’t feel anything. I.”

“Sam,” Dean says. “Maybe it doesn’t belong to anyone anymore. Maybe the children —”

“No,” Sam snarls. “It’s not that. It’s as though—Ah!” 

The sound of Sam’s cry pierces the quiet of the forest like a thunderclap, startling the horses and sending them running back down the path. Dean calls out after them. Then, before Dean can catch him, Sam collapses abruptly to his knees, clutching his head in both hands and moaning.

“Sam!” Dean crouches down next to him and tries to pry his hands away from his head. “Look at me. What’s happening?”

“She—” Sam breaks off and cries out again. His knuckles have turned white where he’s gripping his own head. Then he raises his head to look at Dean. Blood streams freely from his nose, red-stained tears spilling down his cheeks. “She’s here.”

“Who?” Dean looks around quickly, but the woods appear empty. He attempts to stem the flow of blood from Sam’s nose with the cuff of his sleeve.

“We have to leave,” Sam says, and then his eyes roll back in his head and he falls forward.

Dean catches him and lowers him gently to the ground. His heart is pounding somewhere in the region of his throat. He removes his cloak and folds it under Sam’s head, tips Sam’s chin to the side. Then he reaches into his belt bag and pulls out a small vial of ruby liquid.

“Sam,” he says, stroking a hand over his brother’s hair. “ _ Evigila _ .”

Sam’s eyes flutter and he moans weakly. 

Dean supports the back of his neck and makes him drink a little from the bottle. “Sam. What was that?”

But Sam won’t speak. Eventually, Dean manages to rouse him enough to stand. Keeping one arm around Sam’s waist and the other gripping Sam’s wrist slung over his shoulder, they begin a slow shuffle back down the path. Every few minutes, Sam’s feet give out and Dean has to stop and steady him before they can continue.

The journey out of the woods is immensely slow, accompanied only by the sound of Sam’s rattling breath. It’s nearing evening by the time they emerge from the forest to find the horses standing by the well just beyond the treeline. Exhausted from carrying most of Sam’s weight for hours, Dean mounts his horse and hoists Sam up after him. They set off back to the village with Sam’s horse following behind them.

+

“What happened to him?” Godfrey asks, keeping his voice low. When Dean knocked on his door, bloodied and half-carrying Sam, Godfrey beckoned them back inside without asking questions. He bade Dean put Sam in his own bed, and then told Annis to start a fire to get them warm.

From his place in a chair next to the bed, between Sam’s prone form and the door, Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Sam has... visions. He sees things that have happened or will happen. They take a toll on him.”

Godfrey nods, gazing into the fire. “And he saw something in the woods?”

“Yes,” Dean says. “But he hasn’t been able to say what it was. Only, ‘She’s here.’”

“‘She,’” Godfrey repeats. “A witch?”

“I’m not certain,” Dean says. “I’ve never seen a vision have such an effect before. It seemed like someone, or some _ thing _ , meant to harm him.”

“In all my life living beside these woods,” Godfrey says, “I’ve never known any creature to do such a thing. At any rate, you’ve had a long day and you need rest. Your brother is safe now. You should sleep.”

Dean grunts an acknowledgement. He reaches out to brush stray hairs off Sam’s forehead. Sam is hot to the touch, sweat beading on his forehead and cheeks flushed despite his earlier pallor.

“Come on, Sam,” he half-whispers. “Wake up.”

Sam murmurs vaguely, but doesn’t rouse.

Dean keeps vigil at Sam’s bedside for hours, politely refusing the food and drink offered by Annis. She’s an uncommonly solemn girl, with dark eyes like her father’s. She reminds him a little of Sam at that age, thoughtful and serious.

Much later, there comes a knock at the door. Dean turns, blocking Sam from view as best he can. Godfrey opens the door and a slight woman enters, carrying a steaming cup.

“This is Evelyn,” Godfrey explains. “She’s a skilled herbalist. If anyone can help Sam, she can.”

Evelyn approaches the bed. Dean keeps himself carefully between her and Sam.

“What is that?” he asks, gesturing to the cup.

Her gaze falls on Sam, sweating and shivering and moaning on the bed. “To help him rest,” she says gently, holding the cup out toward him. “To clear his mind.”

Dean looks to Godfrey, who nods. Reluctantly, he takes the cup, inhaling the unmistakeable scent of lavender. He brings the rim to Sam’s lips and coaxes him to drink a little. Then he sets the cup aside.

Evelyn is watching him. Her eyes are pale blue. “You should take some too. You’ll need to be prepared.”

“Prepared?” Dean asks, but she is already crossing the room and slipping out the door, murmuring a quiet goodnight to Godfrey.

“Evelyn has changed since her daughter went missing last year,” Godfrey says, presumably by way of explanation. “We all have.”

Dean returns his attention to Sam. For the first time since the episode in the woods, Sam is still. His breathing has evened out and slowed. He doesn’t appear to be in distress, but rather sleeping peacefully.

Dean considers the cup of steaming liquid for several long moments before picking it up and bringing it to his lips. The taste is a little strange, at once bitter and sweet. Slowly, he feels the tension in his shoulders draining away.

As the firelight dims, Dean’s eyelids grow heavier until, at last, he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are eternally appreciated.


End file.
